


Late Night Bar Fight

by mother_finch



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, Gen, mother-finch fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-27
Updated: 2016-05-27
Packaged: 2018-07-10 15:12:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6990601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mother_finch/pseuds/mother_finch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>PROMPT: Prompt: During a mission, Root finds herself at a bar. But after trying to help a number she finds herself in an altercation ultimately leading to her getting a nasty punch to the face before she takes control of the situation. When she returns to the subway, Root is met with a less than pleased Sameen who wants to go back to the bar and shoot a few knee caps.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Late Night Bar Fight

Root sits on an wooden barstool tucked deep into the shadows of a low-lit pub, her eyes masked by the darkness that envelops her. Her gaze drifts lazily across the room as she drags a single, black manicured finger along the rim of her pint glass- she hasn't taken a swig. All around her is the drunk hum of burly men and women that seem to sweat beer, save for one scrawny man two stools over. He taps his frail fingers against the wooden tabletop, the half finished beer in his pint sloshing at the sides of the glass with each tense movement, and his eyes make continuous rounds of the different alcohols on the shelves, and of every bartender. He pulls a cell from the front pocket of his plaid button down, quickly swiping it unlocked to read a text message.

Stealthily, Root withdraws her phone as well, then waits for the cloning process to run its course. With a small vibration, the screen turns a triumphant blue.

**Trevor's Phone: Pairing Successful**

* * *

 

"Let's see what you've been up to," Root murmurs silently to herself with the hint of a smirk, quickly scrolling through his message history. His current conversation follows a tanking investment, how Trevor's trying his best to make the man a profit, but the man is not taking it well.

 **Carl:** _Are you at the bar?_

 **Trevor:** _Yes, I was here at eleven, like you asked. It's been twenty minutes, are you still coming?_

 **Carl:** _Soon_

With that, Trevor slides his phone back into his pocket, fingers trembling against the countertop harder than ever. A bartender walks up to him, leaning on her elbows as she eyes him suspiciously, large lips pursed as her eyes narrow.

"What's got _you_ so jittery, sugar plum?" She asks him. "Is it the comp'ny? Because they're not as tough as they look," she tells him with a smile. "As long as you stay on their _good_ side." Trevor tries to grin back, yet it is strained, and his face pales a shade with the struggle. "You look like you need somethin' strong," she says, turning away from him to grab a shot glass and a long translucent bottle with a spout. She pours the clear liquid in, sliding it to him. He gives her a weary look before slugging it down, face instantly contorting in pain as he winces, grinding his teeth together; the bartender merely laughs. "Outta put some hair on your chest," she jokes playfully, walking to the far end of the bar where a man with a beard and sunglasses waves her down with a hand.

Root's phone begins to ring, and- without taking her brown eyes from Trevor's disgusted features, she accepts the call.

"Root," Sameen Shaw's voice intones into the receiver, and Root cannot help the smile that tugs onto her features.

"Hi, Sam," Root replies with a pleasurable purr in her tone. "How's my favorite girl?" Even through the phone, Root can hear Shaw's eyes roll.

"Bored," she answers with a small sigh. "You need any company?" Root's heart begins to flutter in her chest, and she has to press her lips tightly together to keep from grinning. Just then, the pub door swings open, and a large man in semi-casual wear saunters through the door, a steroid injected guard at each shoulder. Trevor, seeing him, bolts to a stand.

"As much as I would love for you to stop by, Sweetie," Root says, tossing her hair back over one shoulder as the adrenaline begins to drip into her veins. "I'm almost done here." Trevor shakes Carl's hand nervously, offering Carl a seat that he neither accepts nor declines. Already, Root can see the murder brewing in his stormy gray eyes. "We'll talk later," she tells Shaw quietly before hanging up, cupping both hands around her glass, eyes absorbing the scene.

"I-I-I have your money, it's-it's invested just like we discussed," Trevor stutters, green eyes drawn wide with fear.

"Like _Hell_ you do," Carl snarls, taking another step closer. "We know you took the money for yourself. We _know_ you're runnin' a scam, and buddy you picked the _wrong_ people to screw with."

"I didn't- I didn't do anything, I-"

"My boss doesn't like _thieves_ ," Carl growls, nostrils flaring as his lip curls into a contemptuous sneer. With not a moment to spare, Root does some quick digging into the matter. Documents spill before her eyes, revealing shortages blamed on the bad economy, false names and shell corporations where money was invested by numerous identities, all holding the same photo. The same short brown hair, lanky figure with green eyes. Trevor Jebson. "And _tonight_ ," Carl continues,  "we're here to show you what we _do_ to _thieves_. Grab 'em." Carl barks to his two henchmen, who instantly begin to advance.

Slipping from her stool, Root clasps the glass in her hand, emerging from the shadows with sinisterly dark eyes. The sounds around her slip away as she runs through scenarios in her head, and as many possible outcomes as she can find. She comes to a place between the first goon- a tall man with tanned skin and a single earring- and a table of bikers sitting around with alcohol radiating from their every pour. Root turns to the biker nearest her, takes a short glance at his studded jacket and greased back hair, then pours the icy liquid and ice down his back. He jumps up at once, murder in his drunken eyes as they glassily focus in on her. He sways slightly as he draws an arm back, fingers curling into a meaty fist.

He swings.

She ducks.

His knuckle connects with the soft flesh of the first goon's neck, and he wheezes, wheeling around to find the biker as the lone culprit. The goon swings, hitting the biker square in the mouth, and watches the blood spray a fine mist into the air.

Everything goes quiet.

A silent tension builds in the air, collecting like charging volts of electricity until the energized hum is palpable, every drunken mind sharing the same drunken idea: fight.

At once, the stillness crashes down around them, and every body begins the spasmodic thrashing of a large scale brawl. The sounds of bottles smashing, people yelling, and barstools breaking are cacophonous, but the perfect cover for an unnoticed escape. Slinking past Carl and his men, Root approaches a terrified Trevor, whose eyes travel a million miles a minute. She grabs his shoulder and he turns on her, throwing up a feeble fist in defense. She catches it in the palm of her hand, fingers wrapping around his until her clench is deadly, then twists his arm until he groans.

"What do you _want_ from me," he moans pathetically, eyes shut tight. Root tilts her head to the side, hair spilling over her shoulders as she releases her grip.

"I'm here to help you get out in one piece," she replies, and he opens his eyes curiously. He looks her over with an air of curiosity.

"Don't take this the wrong way," he says, dodging out of the way of two men that throw themselves onto the bar, fists flying and faces red. "But who the hell are _you_?"

She smiles at him in a way that makes him both elated and horrified. "Concerned third party," Root replies simply before grabbing his upper arm and walking him cautiously towards the exit. The pub is a sea of thrashing bodies, and she is careful to avoid them all. She throws herself into reverse as a barstool is wailed across the room, mere inches from her face, only to stumble into a ring of angry drunks. Two men and a women stare at her, eyes glossed with alcohol, and they descend on her like wolves. With quick jabbing motions that their slowed brains cannot quite react to, she brings them to their knees in seconds, stepping over the woman's limp body and starting towards the doors again.

"That was _really_ hot," Trevor informs her, having to raise his voice for her to hear. "Where did you _learn_ that?" She doesn't answer, merely focuses on getting out. _We have to get out._

One second her hand is on Trevor's shoulder, the next it only grapples with air, and she whips around to find him in Carl's angered clutches. His nose is bleeding profusely, lip split and eyes livid as he draws an arm back, winding up for a fatal blow to Trevor's face. Root takes a quick stock of her options. _Guns? No, too risky in such a small space._ The pub's brawling has begun to lessen, between the bartenders' threats and those knocked unconscious, leaving only a dozen or so still in the game. _Taser? It's gonna have to be taser._ Slipping it from her back pocket with her free hand, Root approaches Carl quickly, jabbing the prongs into his jugular before letting loose on the trigger. She can hear the cruel zap of electricity as it sears his skin and he yelps, dropping with small spasms to the floor. His muscular arm jerks her way in one final attempt at rebellion, and knocks the taser from her grasp. Reflexes tell her to reach for it; however, in doing so, she places herself right in the center of two brawling drunks. The first gives her a swift jab to the side, and she doubles over in a wheeze, just as the second brings a knee to her chest, throwing her body back up into an unbalanced standing position. The first man, not yet realizing it's not his true target he's hitting, clamps one hand down on Root's shoulder as the other connects with her face. An instant heat floods to her right eye that quickly turns into a burning so hot she cannot think. The burning glows white in her vision, swallowing everything around her until there is only blankness and static.

"Hey? Hey, lady?" Trevor's voice is distant in her ears as she blinks a few times, head rolling and brain bouncing within her skull. "Lady, you okay?" He shakes her shoulders, and her vision returns. Fuzzy at first, then clear. Wheeling around and ignoring the sharp pound in her head and the pulse in her eye, Root slams the heel of her hand into the first man's nose, hearing it crunch with- perhaps- too much satisfaction. She takes a high heel to his knee, listening to him gurgle out a swear as he falls, and she gives him a sharp knee to the chin on his adventure down.

The sound of a shotgun rounds off, and everyone stops, turning to see the bartender. Her blue eyes are livid, plump lips pursed once more only this time in contempt as she follows through the pump action of the weapon with one arm. The room turns silent as her eyes canvas the few still standing.

"Next one a' y'all to throw a punch in my bar gets one of these rounds in the head, you hear?" She bellows, although she does not make a gesture of pointing the weapon anywhere but up. The drunken man beside Root- the one that kneed her in the chest- coughs.

"I ain't _done_ yet," he slurs out, putting up his fists. His legs wobble beneath him, face covered in cuts and hair matted to his wrinkled head with sweat. "I'll fight e'ry _one_ -a-yas, I'll fight _cha'all_." Root, peering around, finds an empty glass on the table to her left. Picking it up, she raises it above her head. "I'll fight _you_ , 'n _you_ , 'n-" Root slams it down over his head, the glass shattering as his eyes roll back, knees giving- he drops like a fly. With only the handle left in her grip, Root places it back on the table, giving the bartender an apologetic shrug.

"I'll reimburse you for it," Root tells her, but the woman nearly shakes her head with a grin.

"You saved me from doin' it myself," she replies. "Now get outta here while I call the cops." With that, Root loops her arm around Trevor's, whisking him into the chilled night air.

_________\ Person of Interest /________

"What the hell do you _mean_ , you got into a _fight_ , Root?" Shaw demands furiously upon seeing Root's state. She'd barely made it two steps into the station before Shaw spotted her- spotted her bedraggled appearance.

"It doesn't matter," Root responds casually, continuing into the station as she tries to ignore the tightness in her chest. She thinks there might be a bruised rib or two rattling about in there.

"I think it _does_ ," Shaw shoots back, coming before Root and forcing her to stop in her tracks. They are inches away, Shaw having to bring her head back to look Root in the eye. Root nearly smiles at the sight, but knows it will only enrage Shaw more. "You look like _crap_."

"You say the sweetest things," Root coos somewhat sardonically, side stepping to continue towards the subway car. Shaw matches her stride, not letting her escape from this one. Shaw brings a hand to Root's face, thumb pressing down just under Root's right eye, and she can't fight off a wince.

"Explain to me what happened."

Root peers at her a moment, at this point barely able to see Shaw with her right eye. She can feel the soreness creeping into her muscles, her chest burning, and her face feeling like absolute Hell. She ponders the positives and negatives of indulging Shaw. _She'll be reprimanding, probably snarky_ , Root thinks to herself. _But how can I pass up a chance to let her play doctor?_ The mere idea brings a smile to her face that she quickly drops, the pain in her nose forbidding it. Her head begins to feel airy, the subway’s lights becoming bright around her, and she closes her eyes tight. A moment later, she feels Shaw's hand on her back, walking her somewhere. She hears their shoes clack against the cold ground, Harold's typing, and Bear's light snores from a little further away. When she finally opens her eyes once more, she finds Shaw easing her down onto the terminal's bench, taking a seat beside her.

"Turn," Shaw instructs as she crosses her legs on the bench to face Root, the harshness from her voice no longer present. Root swivels her torso, feels shooting pain like knives run up her throat, and halts with a sharp breath. Shaw, eyes casting over with storm clouds, leans in, tugging at the hem of Root's shirt and pulling it up. Root keeps her eyes locked on Shaw, struggling to control her breathing and her sputtering heart and her jumping nerves. Shaw rolls the shirt up half way, and Root's skin reveals an already purpling bruise blossoming from her lower sternum. Shaw clicks her teeth distastefully, running her fingers gently across the spot; Root holds her breath. She continues to hold it as Shaw walks her fingers along each of Root's ribs. Perhaps she's checking for damage, but Root couldn't tell you- she's too overwhelmed with Shaw's touch to focus on much of anything for too long.

"What's the diagnosis, doc?" Root asks smugly, smirk coming to her face as  Shaw's glowering eyes flicker up to her.

"You're not gonna die," Shaw tells her, rolling the shirt back don. "Not unless I kill you myself," she adds under her breath before coming to take a look at Root's face. Her touch is tender as she slowly traces the length of the bruising with her fingers before covering up Root's good eye with the other hand. Withdrawing her left, Shaw asks the number of fingers she's holding up. It's a slightly blurry image- watered down- but not impossible to make out.

"Two."

"Again."

"Five."

"Again."

"I can _see_ , Sameen," Root assures her affectionately, leaning in despite her ribs' groans in protest. Shaw waits, as if not fully believing her, before getting up and walking silently away. Root sighs, tucking her knees in and swiveling ninety degrees until she can lay back on the bench, eyes following the small cracks in the ceiling overhead. A second later Shaw returns, icepack in hand as she sits back on the bench, lifting Root's head into her lap and handing her the pack without a word. But Root can tell she's still waiting for an explanation, so she closes her eyes and begins.

"The number was stealing money from his clients," Root muses, the coldness against her skin a welcomed pleasure. "One of them found out and sent three men to kill him. I got a fight started that got entirely out of hand. Took a couple people down, got hit a few times, and that's it."

"I'm gonna go back there," Shaw says after a silent minute, and Root opens her good eye. She can see the tendons tighten below Shaw's skin, and the fury mounting like dark daggers in her eyes. "See how well they can fight with their knee caps on the floor." Root gives a short, rumbling chuckle.

"Not a good idea, Sam." Still, she can see the wheels turning in Shaw's mind, and watches the seriousness of the idea grow within her.

"Neither was them hitting you, but people make choices."

"I agree with Ms. Groves," Harold interjects from across the way, turning his chair to look at them. "It would be unwise of you to-"

"You stay out of this, Harold," Shaw retorts, pointing an accusatory finger his way. Root smiles, reaching up with one hand to Shaw's, and bringing it back down to rest at her stomach. Shaw peels her sizzling stare from Harold to peer back down at Root, anger only slightly dissipating.

"The owner called the cops anyway," Root informs her softly, butterflies starting to finally settle down in her stomach. "They'll be gone by now."

"I could easily go find them," Shaw assures her, the heat draining from her words as she says it, the plan dropping back into the realm of small fantasy. Nonetheless, Root plays along.

"You _could_..." Root replies, a fake air of ponderance in her tone. "Or you _could_ stay here with _me_." And with that, Root takes her hand from the icepack, bringing it to the back of Shaw's neck and tugging her down until their lips meet. At once, the finally settled butterflies erupt once more, leaving Root to feel the lightness of elation. Footsteps travel softly towards them; stop; a clearing of the throat.

Reluctantly, Root allows her hand to slip away from Shaw's neck, and even more slowly still, Shaw pulls away. Her eyes flicker to Harold and back to Shaw, waiting for him to speak.

"This might not be the _best_ time," he starts slowly, and Root watches Shaw's lips turn up in a smirk.

"What tipped you off to that?" She asks him sarcastically and his lips press into a distasteful frown. He ignores her and continues.

"We have a new number. Watertown New York; it's a five hour and thirty minute drive, so I suggest you both depart as soon as possible." With that, he retreats back to his computer station, and Shaw glances down at Root, waiting for a move. After a minute more of gazing, Root sits up, throwing her feet back onto the floor. They stand, headed for the station's exit.

"If we leave now, we can make it there before six," Shaw tells her, doing the calculations silently in her head. "That could give us enough time to find a hotel, sleep a little, and get some information on our number." Root nods shortly, looking straight ahead.

"Or we could go home now, and leave early tomorrow morning?" Root suggests. She can feel Shaw's eyes on her, and waits until she can barely stand the heat of her stare before turning her face to Shaw's. She watches Shaw's gaze, the slight glint in the dark brown of her irises and the near microscopic smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

"Or we could do that," Shaw agrees, and Root's heart drums in its place as she sees that she and Shaw are both thinking the very same thing.


End file.
